


You're Safe Like Dynamite, Everyday Could Be Your Last

by bergann



Category: Generation Kill
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Police, Alternate Universe - Superheroes/Superpowers, M/M, Superpowers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-18
Updated: 2010-12-18
Packaged: 2017-10-14 19:47:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,021
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/152815
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bergann/pseuds/bergann
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Who the fuck takes a lunch break when theyve got a dead guy on their table?" Ray bitches.</p><p>"I think pretty much anyone who works regularly with them. After all, it's not like they're going anywhere." Walt pauses, giving Ray a pointed look. "Well, most of them, anyway."</p>
            </blockquote>





	You're Safe Like Dynamite, Everyday Could Be Your Last

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kitsunejin](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=kitsunejin).



> Written for the YAGKYAS exchange over at LJ.
> 
> The first thing that popped into my head upon reading the ‘short prompt’ (which is used as the title) was a somewhat unconventional superpower AU. I played around with other ideas, but in the end, this is the one I kept circling back to. If you’ve ever read the comic Top Ten, this is kind of like that. If you haven’t – don’t worry, ‘kind of’ might’ve been stretching it a little. Many thanks to my wonderful beta who fixed up the grammar for me, an invaluable service ♥

  
"-- the fuck down!" Ray shouts, startling awake in the morgue.

There's no sound from the room or the hallway outside, other than the quiet hum of Doc's body fridges, and Ray lies still for a moment as his eyes try to adjust to the dim lighting, feeling the cold autopsy table underneath him and the now-distant ache in his gut. He runs his hand over the smooth skin there, just to make sure, but Doc's put his power to good use once again, and there's not a hint of scarring under Ray's fingers. No sign that he'd gotten shot at all.

When Doc still doesn't appear after two minutes, Ray sighs with disgust and sits up. The lights flicker to life, and thank God for motion sensors Ray thinks, even as he squints against the brightness.

His shirt's missing (probably already in the dumpster in the alley, bloody and ruined -- Ray had _liked_ that shirt, godfuckingdammit), but thankfully Doc has left him with his pants on and there's a spare shirt lying under his personal effects on an empty autopsy table.

Ray sits up and cracks his spine before he shrugs into the shirt and pockets his keys and cell phone, clipping the badge onto his belt.

He's just pulling on his left shoe when the door to the morgue opens and Walt walks in, looking unsurprised to see Ray up and walking again, but there's still a hint of worry in his eyes. Ray pretends not to notice. "I heard you were up and since Doc's on his lunch break, I figured I'd come check on you."

"Who the fuck takes a lunch break when theyve got a dead guy on their table?" Ray bitches.

"I think pretty much anyone who works regularly with them. After all, it's not like they're going anywhere." Walt pauses, giving Ray a pointed look. "Well, most of them, anyway."

"You're just jealous of my skills, Hasser, don't front." Ray says, making a kissy face. "Lunch, you said? Doc might have some piss-poor bedside manners, but at least he's got good ideas. Food's exactly what the newly reanimated need."

Walt snorts, but he follows Ray gamely enough out of the morgue and up the stairs to the cafeteria. "I just thought I'd let you know that you didn't fuck up too badly, Poke and Brad still caught the guy. Plus, now we get to charge him with killing a cop, so Brad says it doesn't matter if he's the scumbag we were actually after or not."

"Fuck you, Hasser," Ray says, pushing open the stairwell door. "If I hadn't gone in first, one of you would have been dead for real. Brad's just pissy because now he owes me another blowjob."

"Not in this lifetime or the next thousand, Person," Brad says, because sometimes Brad likes to hang out behind doors and creep on people. Or because Brad's super senses lets him hear when people are headed his way and what they're talking about. Either way, he makes a habit of hiding until there's a cue that lets him seamlessly enter conversations -- like a creep.

"It's okay, Brad, you don't have to hide your love for me away anymore," Ray says earnestly, "I had an epiphany in death, and I was wrong -- I'll totally dance with you at prom if you put out after. I mean, you'd have to fight Poke for my hand, and I'd doubt you'd win because my boy fights dirty, but don't let that deter you any."

Brad's face twitches in the way that usually means he's torn between laughing and punching Ray in the face. "Every day I get more and more baffled over why on Earth a stupid, inbred piece of shit like you is immortal and what the hell an otherwise intelligent officer of the law like Poke is doing with your skinny ass."

"It's because I'm so fucking awesome," Ray says, "The Earth would fucking weep and implode from sorrow over the loss."

"I think we should have been allowed to test that theory out for ourselves," Brad says, grabbing Ray's shoulder. "C'mon, the suspect's waiting in Interrogation Room 2."

"Homes, I was going to get food," Ray bitches. "Walt, get me a sandwich!"

"Fuck you, Person." Walt says, "I'm not paid to be at your beck and call. I was just checking you had healed properly."

"I'd heal better if I had a sandwich!" Ray shouts, because Brad is still dragging him away from Walt and the cafeteria.

"Chitchat later," Brad says, releasing his grip on Ray's shoulder and allowing Ray to follow on his own accord. He grins and adds, "Right now there's a scumbag in Interrogation about to spill his guts to the ghost of Christmas fucking present."

"Aw, Iceman, I always knew you cared," Ray cackles. "Let me at this asshole."

*

"Jesus Christ, man, suck it up and deal with it like a man," Ray says, "It takes balls to shoot a cop, but the way you're blubbering on about it, I would've thought I'd been shot by a six year old girl and that shit's just bad for my reputation."

The drug-dealing asshole doesn't seem to be listening. He's too busy rocking back and forth on his chair, one hand grasping his shaking head as the other covers his eyes. He's blubbering like a girl who's been dumped at prom, and Ray desperately needs a sandwich and some beer. It's been a long-ass day.

"C'mon, dude, where's your sense of professionalism?" Ray asks, "I mean, I know it's pretty much nonexistent seeing as how you were selling drugs to kids who haven't even realized the hell that awaits them in puberty, but surely doing something as incredibly fucking low as that means you'll be tough enough to not weep like you're trying for a fucking Oscar?"

He continues on like that for a while until the asshole finally calms down enough to string together a semi-coherent sentence.

"How can -- make you disappear?" The guy blubbers, and Ray rolls his eyes.

"Well shooting me is clearly out of the question," Ray says, "In fact that just hurts my feelings, man, and kind of pisses me off. You couldn't even make it a clean shot, could you, no; you made me fucking bleed out on your ugly-ass floor. I'm lucky I didn't come down with the plague."

"Please," the guy sobs, "I'll do anything."

"How about a straight up confession then?" Ray suggests, "My job'll be done as you'll go to jail and I'll be out of your hair, kids won't die of a drugs overdose before they figure out the basics of masturbation, and everybody goes home happy. So come on, I'm at the edge of my seat in the afterlife, were you in fact the brain-dead lowlife seen selling drugs to students of Prowe Academy?"

"Yes, okay? It was me. Rich private school kids are desperate to be seen as rebels and shit; they didn't even care about the price so long as they were given something they could've bragged about to their classmates. None of what I sold should've been enough to kill that kid, I swear, I wasn't being given the good stuff."

"Where'd you get your stuff from?"

"That wasn't the deal; you said you'd go away if I confessed to selling to the kids!"

"Listen to me, retard: some of the drugs you were selling to those kids had some seriously motherfucking dangerous chemicals mixed in with them. You're fucking lucky these kids only wanted to look cool, rather than actually use, or there'd be more than just one dead teenager hanging over your head. Now we already have you for shooting a cop. The fact that you confessed to the original crime we were there to question and arrest you for is just a bonus. Your confession doesn't really do much for anyone, but helping us along to bigger fish, the one lacing the drugs you're selling with these chemicals? Now that we'll _really_ appreciate."

It's not until Ray implies he'll haunt the jackass for the rest of his life in a tiny cell that he breaks down and coughs up the name of his supplier.

"Great, thank you, and believe you me, I hope I never see you again either," Ray says, flipping him off as he walks out of Interrogation.

Brad and Poke are waiting outside. Brad claps Ray on the shoulder as he slips past him into the room. Poke smirks at him. "Not bad, dog."

"Not bad?" Ray says, "I got a supplier and an address, homes, and that's after I died and before I had lunch."

"It took you fifty minutes," Poke says.

"My mere presence made the guy nearly piss his pants," Ray says, "and it's hardly my fault the guy is a total fucking pussy whose tears seriously lacked an off-switch."

"I'm sure you leaping into the room like a crazy-ass white boy and shouting about exacting revenge for your wrongful death had nothing at all to do with his worse-than-usual reaction," Poke says agreeably and Ray grins. "C'mon Marley, let's go grab some pizza."

"Homes," Ray laughs, "did you and Brad divorce and divide the Christmas Carol references equally amongst yourselves? Because I gotta admit, Brad had a better delivery."

"You implying a brother can't pull off a Christmas Carol reference?" Poke asks, eyebrow raised like he's seriously considering making an issue of it. Which, since it's Poke, is pretty damn likely.

"You're such a sensitive fucking Mexican," Ray complains. "All I meant was that yours lacked a bit of pizzazz, and that's got nothing to do with your fishing village origins."

"Pizzazz? Seriously?" Poke laughs. "Can your hick ass be any more white?"

"It could be the same shade as Brad's ass," Ray points out then smirks at the way Poke's face twists up in distaste.

*

It isn't until he and Poke have just finished dinner after shift, four hours later, that Ray has to stop in the middle of his sentence to cough up two bullets.

"Jesus," Poke says, looking a little like he regrets having that last helping of fried rice. "Doesn't Doc usually dig those out while you are down in the morgue?"

Ray gets up and goes into the kitchen, throwing the bullets into a plastic bag and washing his hands, before returning to the table. "Doc said he couldn't find them this time, and that he'd rather save us both the trauma of me waking up with his hands rooting around near my liver. Which I'm eternally fucking grateful for as in general I try to avoid reliving traumatic childhood experiences."

"You woke up in the morgue as a kid?"

"Mid-autopsy," Ray says, "I don't know who was more horrified, me or the coroner, but I'd startled him so bad he'd accidentally nicked one of my arteries or some shit, so I bled out again pretty quickly. By the time I woke back up, he'd sewn me together again and was having a breakdown in the corner. Had to hold his hand and tell him everything was going to be okay, never mind the fact I was freaking out about the discovery that I was one of the freaks with powers."

"No wonder you're so warped, dog," Poke says, shaking his head.

Ray shrugs and snorts. "Like anyone with powers isn't totally fucked in the head. There's a reason we all end up in the same fucking department, homes, and it's not because we've all got the same sunny personality."

Poke's lips twist in wry amusement and he nods. "Don't make it any less fucked up."

"You mean to tell me the day you and Tony realized you were the same motherfucking person and not just freakily identical twins didn't warp you for life?" Ray asks, because it certainly warped _him_ a little more to respond to a domestic disturbance a year and a half ago only to discover Poke playing house on the other side of the street with a smoking hot wife and two tiny girls. Nevermind that only three hours earlier he'd whispered something in Ray's ear that had made Walt blush like a virgin as he spilled his coffee all over Manimal and led Brad to try and bribe Q-Tip into erasing his memory of the past 5 minutes entirely.

To say Ray lost it for a bit would've been an understatement, although it'd had been more in the sense that he'd avoided Poke for the rest of his shift, then gotten shitfaced enough that he'd woken up in the City Morgue with Poke sitting next to him, practically shaking with anger and worry, and they'd screamed it all out in front of two Jane Does and three car-crash victims.

"We were six," Poke says, shrugging. "I think we barely paused our video game for it. It's never really been an issue, other than some fights in our teens about who was the original."

"Okay," Ray admits, "Clearly the two of you were warped at an even younger age and normally I would eagerly help you find the root of your dysfunctionality --" Poke raises an eyebrow at him -- "but, homes, I'm still alive and there's no longer any chance of me accidentally ruining the mood by spitting a bullet on your face, so how about we leave the dishes for tomorrow and go celebrate the fact that the criminal retards of this city never aim for the head?"

"You don't need to be spitting bullets to ruin a mood, dog," Poke says, "Because that right there? Killed it."

Ray waggles his eyebrows, just to see Poke's face twist up, and heads off to the bedroom, confident that Poke'll follow anyway.

*

"Hasser, what the fuck is this on my desk?" Ray asks when he gets into work the next morning, alone because Poke's off hassling his rookies at Homicide, staring at the monster of all case files.

"Rudy dropped it off, like, ten minutes ago," Walt says, shrugging. "Ask him."

"I will fucking ask him," Ray says, "Because if he thinks he can get away with giving me more paperwork just because he's pretty, he needs to go check if it isn't brainpower he should be harnessing, rather than his fucking chi."

"Bitch it to someone who cares," Walt suggests, getting up from his desk with a file of his own in one hand. "I've got to go hit up Rolling Stone for some information about these back-alley murders, I think they tie in with all that LSD we keep catching prostitutes with."

"Wasn't aware it was your time of the month, sorry," Ray apologizes, forgoing all the comments about the prostitutes his brain offers up to him, because getting on the bad side of an already pissy telepath is never a good idea. "We'll go out for ice cream later."

"Thank you, and I don't mean about the ice cream," Walt says, rubbing at his forehead. "Because I know the ice cream is just you being an asshole as usual, but I'm going to hold you to that because I carpooled with fucking Whopper Jr. this morning."

Ray winces. "Shit, I forgot that freak of nature likes to pretend he cares about the environment. I'll even throw in some extra sprinkles."

Walt smiles at him, strained around the edges. Ray sympathizes -- being a telepath must fucking suck balls, and in absolutely none of the good ways. Walt laughs and shakes his head at him, then strides out of the bullpen, tapping his file against his hip as he goes.

"Fruity Rudy!" Ray calls in sing-song, taking his own monstrosity of a file with him over to where Rudy reigns with an 'all natural energy' fist. "Has your department really drowned under so much shit that you gotta shift it on over to your pal Ray-Ray? I thought we were solid, man, I thought we had a bond, and then I come in after a lovely, relaxing night to find out you've went and stabbed me in the back? What the fuck?"

"Wasn't me, brother." Rudy says, shrugging apologetically. "Brad requested all the files we had on the supplier that guy you busted yesterday gave up. Guess he's the big fish you've been looking for after all, not just another herring in the ocean. Took one look at the folder and told me to ship it on over to you."

"Fucking Brad," Ray says, "I'm sorry I ever doubted you, homes. You're as beautiful as the day I first laid eyes on you."

Manimal laughs. "He was undercover as a male prostitute when you met him, Person."

"Like I'd forget," Ray sighs dramatically, clutching at his heart. "If only my paycheck wasn't as thin as Brad's dick, we would've spent a wonderful night together."

Rudy smiles, and for a moment Ray's totally prepared to throw his hands up in victory and declare he's finally charmed the mighty Fruity Rudy, but then Rudy says, "I think for you, brother, I'd have risked the op and claimed I was just taking a walk."

"Damn, bro," Christenson calls from his desk, struggling to be heard over the general laughter. "That was some serious burn."

*

"Detective Person," Fick says as Ray's walking by his office, not so much trying to hunt down Brad to bitch at him as making sure all of Brad's favorite haunts are inaccessible to him. Sooner or later Brad's going to get pissy enough to stop hiding and face up to his part in the paperwork like a man.

"What up, Captain?" Ray says, stepping into his office and grinning a little wider as he notices the second Starbucks cup on Fick's desk, still unfinished and warm. Brad's probably lurking down the corridor, waiting for Ray to leave again.

He settles down in one of the chairs and decides why-the-fuck-not and takes a sip of Brad's coffee. Revenge tastes oddly like gingerbread, Ray thinks, then remembers it's almost Christmas and that Brad is a giant fucking hypocrite who'll pretend black coffee's the only way to go, unless he's the one on the coffee run.

Fick lifts an eyebrow and smirks at him, like he knows exactly what's running through Ray's mind, like Walt's not the only telepath in the building. "I heard you died again yesterday."

"Bad fucking luck, sir," Ray says, because it really fucking was. "I'm fairly certain the pussy was aiming at a coat rack, but his hand was shaking so fucking badly he hit me instead."

Fick sighs. "I know your partial invulnerability leads you to taking risks you otherwise wouldn't have and lets you escape from those risks without any lasting damage in the long run, except to your psyche and the psyche of those around you," he begins. He sounds long-suffering, which is fair enough, because Ray's been in his office enough times to know all the variations of this routine by heart. "But I still don't understand why you can't follow the same safety guidelines as everyone else does. Just because you're less likely to die doesn't mean you have to try on every case."

"I don't do it on purpose," Ray says, because he seriously doesn't. Dying fucking hurts, whether or not it's permanent in the long run, and it's not like he enjoys the pained expression on Walt's face every time he wakes up or the way Poke's face will stay clear and emotionless for hours. "I have a theory, okay."

"You have many and none of them are usually relevant to this situation, but go ahead."

"Our powers, right, are not natural. Not your time manipulation skills or Brad's superhuman senses, not Poke's whole duplication spiel, not my invulnerability or what-the-fuck-ever our word for the week is and definitely not Trombley's fucking acid spewing thing. We're motherfucking freaks of nature, homes, and that's why we've all ended up in this department.

"The only fucking people around here who are genetically normal are the scumbags we arrest and Rudy, although I still doubt that one because no one without powers should be stronger or faster than those with, whether or not he's harnessing his chi or whatever." Fick's face is losing patience, so Ray reins himself back on track. "Anyway, we're all anomalies of the universe, right? Technically, we shouldn't exist with our powers, and yet we do.

"Well, what if the universe is trying to, like, right itself or some shit? Like, what if that's why I keep ending up with my motherfucking guts on my hands and Trombley keeps making people want to hit him over the head with something heavy. It's trying to restore the natural order of things, and I'm sorry to say, but powered up humans don't seem to be invited to that particular party."

"Man, the amount of bullshit that spews out of your mouth never ceases to scare me, Person," Brad says, snatching his coffee out of Ray's hands and glaring when he discovers it's nearly empty. "That is straight up some of the most retarded, nonsensical motherfucking bullshit I have ever heard."

"You have a better explanation?" Ray demands, "Because I would love to hear it, right after you explain to me when I became your paperwork bitch again. I'm not some goddamn retarded rookie."

Brad smirks at him. "What makes you think you were ever anything but?"

"Who the fuck pissed in your cornflakes this morning?"

"I refuse to believe this has to take place in my office," Fick interrupts. "Or, for that matter, while you're supposed to be solving a case. Colbert, stop being such a bitch. Person, stop being such a dick. Go solve crime, and Person, try not to get killed this time."

"Ha," Ray whispers as he files out of Fick's office, a little shamefaced, "see, even the Captain thinks I wear the fucking pants in this relationship."

Brad stares at Ray for a moment, before he sighs and looks down the empty corridor, staring at a drinking fountain. The expression on his face, when he responds, suggests he's under some heavy-duty torture. "Sarah threw me out last night."

Ray's breath hisses out between his teeth. "Right in the middle of Hanukkah too, that bitch. Jesus, Brad, now I actually do feel like I've been a dick. But I fucking warned you that harpy was biding her time to kick you in the nuts, I warned you from day one and you told me I was just jealous I couldn't have pussy anymore -- which is a fuckin' lie, Brad, just so you know, because it's fuckin' true what they say about going black."

Brad rolls his eyes and stomps off. Normally Ray might feel about completely disregarding the sensitive feelings of his friends so recently after a break-up, but it's Brad. Brad can handle Ray being lippy about anything, whether it's his ex-girlfriend or his glaringly white ass. Secondly, Brad had been motherfucking miserable in that relationship, but he's the biggest emotional retard Ray has ever met and up until the station got a hold of him, had thought 'friends' were people who only invited you over to their house to rub your face in what could have been.

Sometimes Ray wishes his power was invisibility, just so he could go around punching people in the face without fear of having assault charges filed against him.

Ray jogs a little to catch up with Brad and falls into step beside him, waiting until they're near their desks before he gives his peace offering, "You can crash at my place until you find a new apartment."

Brad looks sideways at him. "Poke won't mind?"

Ray snorts. "Yeah, Brad, I think Poke'll think it's a real hardship to help out our mutual BFF in need."

"Don't call me that," Brad snaps as he settles down at his desk, splitting the case file evenly between them, then says in a softer voice, "I'd appreciate that, Ray."

"It'll be like an extended slumber party!" Ray says doing his best sorority girl impression. Brad glares up at him, and Ray gives him a shit-eating grin before glancing down at the case files. "But first, let's catch daddy Fick a drug lord so he won't go around looking like we skinned his puppy all day. Because sooner or later Walt's going to run into Fick and you know once that happens, homes, there'll be a motherfuckin' guilt-trip which I, personally, have no interest in receiving."

"Amen," Brad says, and they dig in to their respective files.

*

At the end of the week, they've read the case files on Mr. Jackass Drug Lord cover to cover more times than Ray could bother keeping track of, and their case against him is shaping up pretty damn good. Once they knew who was behind the tainted drugs, untangling the mess of evidence gathered over the course of their investigation (as well as the evidence Manimal and Stafford had gathered when they tried bringing the asshole down a few years back and he'd walked on a technicality) is surprisingly easy.

They're taking things slow, as much as it pains Ray and as much as it pisses off Brad, because there is no way they're letting this scumbag walk again. They're waiting for the court orders to come through, for the case to be rock solid, for Wynn to clear his schedule enough to nail this rat bastard good. If the scumbag walks, Ray thinks the station might not be able to crawl out of the gutter the 'normal' people view it as being in.

If they've got superpowers and still can't make sure lowlifes like that aren't tainting the streets anymore, the general public is going to ask what use they are, and the resulting awkward silence will be horrible for the station -- no matter how quickly Fick recovers or how much bullshit the Godfather barks at the crowd, because it's hard to trust a guy who gave the order that led to a member of the police accidentally spewing acid over two young boys not even in their teens.

World's fucked up worse than they are, Ray thinks as he watches Rudy slam Manimal to the ground, natural harness of chi vs. superhuman strength, and whoops out a 'You go Fruity Rudy!' when Manimal doesn't get up again right away. The bullpen is still three quarters full, because while even superhuman cops like to take some time off to celebrate the winter, crime usually just views it as another excuse to try and get away with someone else's property.

"Tomorrow," Brad says, coming up beside him. His lips quirk up for the barest hint of a second as he takes in the fight going on before them, but the rest of his face is serious, as Iceman as he can get. It's been eight days of Brad sleeping in the guest bedroom and finding great amusement in the apparent domesticity of Poke and Ray and bitching about their so-called psychologically scarring methods of revenge (it was a little peck over toast, Ray's seen worse on Brad's _Facebook_ ); of waiting for everything to be squared away perfectly with the case and dotting their i's and crossing their t's, and Ray practically bounces to his feet.

"For real, homes?" He asks, thinking of closing a case like this one -- of getting to wave a cheery goodbye in the court room as one of the city's Top 10 scumbags gets carted off to prison, and feels like his power's energy transformation. "Those bureaucratic pussies finally gave us the all-clear?"

Brad nods. "On the condition we cooperate with a SWAT team and put together the team of our best assets," he says.

"Geesh, Brad," Ray says, "When you say it like that it sounds like we're all being invited out for an orgy."

"Never in any of your lifetimes, Person," Brad says, "Round up the usual by thirteen-hundred hours to go over the details. The SWAT guys should be here by then."

"You got it, boss," Ray says, cheerful enough that he doesn't even mind having to make the phone call that drags everyone away from their children, wives, family and friends. It's not like they won't be allowed to go home as soon as the briefing is over, Ray explains to Garza, who mumbles something that sounds distinctly like a slur on Ray's mother.

"You'll get to ruin the holidays of one of the worst fucking scumbags in this town, homes! What the fuck is wrong with you that you don't have an interest in this? Did you hear me crying when _your_ mime case pulled me away from Poke's turkey last Thanksgiving? No I'm talking about a real edible turkey, you sick motherfucker, I don't kiss and fucking tell to pussies like you," Ray bitches to each and everyone that hesitates twice, because the mime case had been communal responsibility and is always good for leverage (seriously, being strangled to death by a mime on Thanksgiving means Ray will always have high ground on his work commitment) and behind him Rudy calls out, "Remind them of their Warrior Code!" from where Manimal has him in a headlock.

When 1300 rolls around, they're all there, looking cranky and like they're itching to punch someone in the face (which is, really, pretty normal), but they all fall quiet when Brad starts talking and none of them rises to the baits SWAT tries to goad them with. There was never any doubt any of them wouldn't be there, Ray knows, because tomorrow they all get to wish the guy responsible for 40% of the city's drug trade, who knows how many indirect deaths, and a small little prostitution ring on the side 'merry fucking Christmas' as he's put in handcuffs.

Ray meets Poke's gaze from where he's slouched on the other side of the room and smiles, feeling every bit as invulnerable as his DNA has made him, and thinks about how it'd be a shame if no one told that donkey sucking lowlife to have a happy fucking New Year too.  



End file.
